It's been three weeks.
Three weeks without seeing Holden. Without talking to Holden. Three weeks without being able to get him out of my mind.
I've never felt this much pain in my life.
I can take my dad. I can take Luke. I can even take the images of the night my mom was killed. But I can't take this three weeks without Holden. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to endure.
The days have passed by as one large blur. For the first few days, I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. I cried until I didn't have any more tears left in me. I refused to eat. I didn't take any phone calls from anyone. That's what I was like until day three.
He stopped calling after day three.
Each day I try to push the pain away. It doesn't work, but sometimes I'm able to pretend it does. I wish I could say it's getting easier, but in reality, I'm only starting to get used to the burning hole in my heart.
I'm a zombie at work. I'm a zombie at school. I keep going through these day to day motions like I'm a robot fulfilling orders.
I stopped training.
My body aches, my muscles itching to move while at the same time wanting to stay stagnant. Holden had a grip on my heart and it's yet to go away. I'm afraid it never will. I don't want to live in this pain for the rest of my life.
I heavily underestimated my feelings for the curly haired boxer.
It makes me shake to admit it to myself, but I feel even worse when I don't. Somehow, between the ego, sarcasm, and adorable little dimples, it happened. It happened so fast that I pretended not to notice until it was too late.
I fell in love with Holden Samuels.
I shake the thought from my mind; focusing on that fact will kill me. My brain feels sluggish as I glance at the clock. 6:47. I can't be late for work again this week; I'm at the latest I can wait before getting ready.
My closet is a mess and I pick out clothes within thirty-seconds, not particularly caring if they match. At this point, barely anybody is making eye contact with me at work, much less assessing what I put on my body. I'm fairly certain I'm beginning to scare people.
I should care, but I don't.
The clothes feel itchy on my skin. Everything I've worn in the past three weeks has. Everything except the shirt Holden gave me before I saw him fight. I've only taken that shirt off when I've absolutely had to.
This is not healthy.
I sluggishly move towards my bathroom; the last thing I want is to go to work, but there's no way around it. When I reach my bathroom, I immediately turn to face the dirty mirror. Even with all the dust clouding the glass, the mess of my appearance is evident. My hair needs to be washed and the circles under my eyes are darker than ever.
And my eyes.
I had gotten so used to seeing the light in them. When Holden came into my life, the light never left. Just the thought of him kept me lit like a lantern. And now that he's out of my life, my eyes have gone back to how they were before. Dead. Lifeless.
Any effort I planned to make for work today is completely shot when my gaze focuses on my eyes. I can't stand looking at them; it's painful being able to tell what I've lost just from my eyes.
I grab my phone and purse, dashing out of my apartment. I try not to think as I slam my door behind me; Holden had the door replaced just so I wouldn't worry about it.
Stop it, Tatum.
I hustle down the hallway and throw myself into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. The sooner I get to work, the sooner I can finish and come home. If I could stay in bed all day, I would. That's really the only thing I have enough energy for.
Hailing a cab isn't worth it, so I walk. Dragging my feet across the hard concrete, I don't have the heart to apologize whenever I accidentally bump someone on the sidewalk. Not that it matters, really. This is New York after all; we're not exactly known for any sort of southern hospitality.
It feels like years pass until I finally reach the building and it takes every ounce of drive in me to enter the structure. Nobody says hi. Nobody even looks at me. I've been putting people off for far too long to gain any friendly gazes.
When I enter my office, the pile of work on my desk nearly makes me hurl. The manuscripts keep piling up and I feel bad for the authors who have manuscripts laying on my desk. It's my job to read through them, to edit them.
But when the only word I see on the page is "Holden," I can't edit anything.
Counseling is probably what I need, if I'm being completely honest. He lied, he's doing something terrible. And I can't stop thinking about him. The way he laughs. The way his eyes crinkle when he's truly smiling. And god, the way his lips feel brushing against my skin.
I'm going certifiably insane, there's no doubt about that.
I set the first manuscript in front of me, but I can't even read the first paragraph without his name flitting across the page. I try again and again, only to come up with the same results. On every single manuscript.
Before I know it, work is over.
I pack up the written work, shoving it as nicely as I can into my purse. I'll get the same result at home, I'm sure, but at least then it looks like I'm trying. On my walk home, I bump into more people than I can count. My vision is blurry and I can't focus on anything; I'm finding my way home purely on muscle memory.
When I make it home, I force myself to eat. I can barely get anything down, but something is much better than nothing. I try to watch TV, but nothing interests me.
I need to fight.
I don't know where the sudden urge came from, but I can't move fast enough. I've been either in pain or numbness for the last few weeks and I need it. I need to feel something. I need to burn through the adrenaline I get from training.
I need to fight.
Once I have my workout clothes on, I'm sprinting. I don't have the patience to wait for a cab, so I run. I don't know how far of a run it is, but I'm out of breath and panting by the end of it. Moving like I'm running from a zombie rather than being said zombie feels marvelous. It's exhilarating.
The door feels light as I swing it open, entering the familiar gym to the scent of musk and sweat. I drop my small bag on the ground by one of the benches, scanning the room. Men are working out like crazy, the testosterone heavy in the air.
I didn't realize how much I missed this.
My eyes gaze over the entire room, searching for Josh. I need training, and I need it now. I make a quick lap around the open space, not seeing him once. Before I can change my mind, I jog over to his office. Whatever business he has to do, it can wait.
I push open the door, my feet frozen on the spot. I glance between the men, ignoring the ache in my heart as Holden's green eyes avoid mine. I can't back out, not now. I need the training. I need to feel something.
"Josh, I need you."
Josh looks at me with wide eyes, obviously surprised to see me here. By now, I'm sure he knows I tricked him, but I don't care. I don't even care about his relation with Luke. I just need him to train me, right here, right now.
"I'm kind of busy right now, Tatum."
The tension in the air is thick, but I ignore it. I have to ignore everything that isn't the urge to throw punches. I've been sad and pathetic for the last three weeks; I need to feel normal again.
I keep my focus on Josh, even when I feel Holden's gaze train on me. I feel my heart breaking all over again, but I push the feeling away as hard as I can. Holden did a bad thing and then lied to me about it.
If I keep telling myself that, maybe it'll make it easier.
"No, Josh. I'm serious. I need you. Right now." I pretend not to notice how desperate my voice sounds and thankfully, neither of the men outwardly acknowledge it.
"I'll be back soon, Holden." Josh motions to Holden to do whatever he pleases, following me out of the office. It feels better to create more distance between me and Holden. Being so close to him without touching him is so much harder than I expected it to be.
Once Josh and I are a good distance from his office, he turns to face me, a quizzical look in his expression. "Long time, no see?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
He sighs, "Look, Stevens. Holden told me what happened."
"I said I don't want to talk about it, Henderson."
My tone shuts him up and I grab his arm, pulling him behind me to the large boxing ring set up in the corner. I don't hesitate before climbing between the ropes. This reminds me greatly of Holden, but I push the unruly curls and green eyes out of my head as I motion for Josh to join me.
"Tatum, what are you doing?"
"I need to train. Now."
Josh's eyebrows pull together, creating small creases on his forehead. His body folds as he climbs through the ropes, pulling on the boxing gloves I hand to him. After my three week disappearance, I could imagine his confusion.
"What do you want to work on, Stevens?"
I'm glad he isn't questioning my sudden urge to train or my sudden appearance at his gym. I'm glad he isn't kicking me out for tricking him like I did.
"Hit me."
"I'm not going to hit you."
"Josh, I'm serious. Hit me."
Both of us move into our specific stances and I bounce around on my feet to warm my body up. In retrospect, I should've stretched first, but I'll just go one session without it. The fight is more important than the form today.
My eyes follow Josh as we begin to move in a small circle. He knows way more punches and kicks than I do, so there's no telling what he'll throw first. Thankfully for me, he starts off with a simple jab.
An easy dodge.
We keep in this form for a while; Josh on offensive and me on the defending end. I know he's going easy on me. I've seen him train with all the men, and when he fights with them, it's all out. I should not be able to avoid every punch he's throwing at me.
"I'm not weak like you think. Pretend I'm one of the guys. Hit me."
Josh sighs, obviously frustrated with me. I push his frustration away, focusing as he begins throwing more advanced punches at me. A few of his strikes hit my forearms, but I'm defending him off better than I anticipated.
"That all you got, Henderson?"
I shouldn't be riling Josh up, but it's the only way he'll take this fight seriously. My arm swings forward, grazing his chin with a solid hook. He backed away last second, but I know it was a good throw.
This is the best I've felt in weeks.
My legs are sore from the movement, but I keep bouncing on my toes. I throw a few more punches, only landing one hard one against Josh. He grunts as his body absorbs the impact, sweat glistening on his face.
I don't even have time to register his movement before I hit the floor.
He used his specialty kick against me. Though I should be mad about being knocked to the floor, my whole body is electrified. After being a walking zombie for the past few weeks, I finally feel alive.
Josh extends a hand out to me, easily lifting me from the hard floor.
"How do you defend that kick?"
He laughs, his frustration gone as soon as I hit the ground, "You can't."
"Meaning?"
"It's not a kick typically used in boxing. Or anywhere, really. There's not a standard defense for it, Stevens. The chances of going against it are slim to none."
I watch as he puts his gloves up, moving to get out of the ring. "Wait."
"What?"
"There has to be some type of defense."
He shakes his head, "There's not." Without any other words, he leaves the ring, sauntering back to his office. I'm drenched in sweat and my breathing is heavy, but I'm not done yet. I've gone three weeks feeling like the dead; I'm not giving up this lively action just yet.
I hop out of the ring, jogging to the punching bag I used during my last training session. I push all the thoughts out of my mind, centering my energy. Though it's painful, I keep Holden's words lingering in my mind. Everything has to be focused, or any throw is pointless.
My feet bounce on the solid floor as I throw punch after punch, giving my all. To my delight, the bag sways in a large radius; my burning muscles are pleased. I push my energy into each punch and each kick, going as fast and as much as I can until I'm drained. My breathing is much heavier than before and I have to lean against the heavy bag for support while my heart rate returns to normal.
I close my eyes, steadying myself.
"Here."
My eyes snap open, meeting a pair of blue ones. The fifteen year old from a few weeks ago stands in front of me, offering up a large water bottle. I gratefully take it, guzzling the water like a dog who has been left in Texas heat all day.
"Michaelson, right?"
It's strange addressing a kid like this, but I have no idea what else I should call him. He still looks as scrawny as he did a few weeks ago; there's a hint of a bruise on his left cheek, but I flitter my gaze away and pretend not to notice.
"Yeah. Jack, actually. Jack Michaelson." A blush takes over his face and it's endearing to meet someone who blushes easier than I do.
"Nice to meet you, Jack. I'm Tatum."
"I know who you are."
I raise one eyebrow at him, silently asking my question. He seems to get the hint, but he takes a minute to think about what to say.
"You dated Holden Samuels. And trained with him. Everybody here knows who you are."
My heart strains at his mention of me and Holden, but I put a small smile on my face in spite of the pain. I suppose it makes sense people would know; Josh wouldn't keep information like that a secret. Especially if it could potentially better Holden's career.
"Right."
"What was it like?"
I finally muster up enough energy to walk myself over to the benches, taking another swig of the ice cold water. It feels glorious sliding down my throat. I feel so alive right now, even with the huge hole in my heart. Jack's footsteps sound behind me, sitting down close next to me.
"What was what like?"
"Training with a professional boxer."
Holden's face flashes through my mind and I push away the thought before I break what I've only just built. If I think about him for too long, the crying will start again. I have to keep that all in.
"It was good. Really good, actually. He taught me a few methods I never could've learned anywhere else."
Jack's eyes are lit as I talk about training with Holden, always sure to avoid the actual use of his name. I'm not sure I could even get the first syllable out without having a breakdown.
"Can you teach me?"
The boy's eyes are so hopeful, I can't help but agree. Setting down the water bottle, I grab his arm and drag him over to the lightweight punching bag. "Show me what you got, Michaelson."
I can feel eyes on me as I watch the boy, silently critiquing his form. Josh hasn't shown him very much; probably because his form needs to improve before he moves onto anything more complex. Once the boy is finished throwing the feeble punches, he steps away from the bag.
"How was that?"
"Your punches would be fantastic if you could get your form down. Power isn't something you're lacking. Watch me; I'll do it in slow motion, but watch how my body moves."
I step up to the bag, breathing in and out before bouncing around on my feet. This always helps my focus, regardless of what punch I'm throwing. I step right, step left, swing. My fist connects with the light bag and the sound resonates around the gym, the bag swaying widely.
"You try, Jack."
Jack attempts to mimic me, but he's too clumsy on his feet. Something is screwing up his balance. I move behind him, ignoring how much taller than me he is. I also ignore the completely familiar feeling of Holden doing this to me just over a month ago.
I shift his body, "Keep your energy centered. You're off balance and that's the problem."
My feet take two steps backwards, allowing him to have space when throwing the punch. It's not perfect, but it's an obvious improvement from the one before. "Go again, Jack. Center it."
He throws the punch a few more times, eventually giving up when he doesn't get it. I can sense his frustration, but I ignore it, pushing him to face the large bag once again. If he gives up on something that matters this much to him, he'll never be happy.
"Think about one person who makes you so angry you can't see straight. They just make you see red and you'd give anything to put them in their place. The bag is them. Keep all your energy centered and think about the person. I know you can do this, Jack. You just have to want it."
I'm beginning to remind myself of Holden, but the thought causes my heart to swell instead of ache. If I can help someone like Holden helped me, thinking of him might just become a little more bearable.
Jack does it.
His jab is beautiful — perfectly executed. He's panting, but has a massive grin spread across his face. Before I know it, he's pulling me into a large hug, squeezing me tightly. I can barely hear him thanking me over his heavy breathing, but I know what he's trying to say.
"I didn't do it Jack, you did. You just needed that push."
Jack hugs me again before turning back to the bag, executing a few more punches. Like me, once he got it, it stuck. Not one of his punches goes astray, and I don't think I've ever seen a kid this happy. I stand near as he pounds the bag, cheering him on until he's totally winded.
It takes him a second to regain himself before he walks over and grabs some water, chugging it down like I did. The smile doesn't leave his face and he looks at me with so much adoration.
"I could so fall in love with you, you know."
My mouth drops at his words, a shocked laugh escaping my mouth, "What?"
"Sexy trainer mentors young trainee and the trainee falls hard in love. The trainer does too, she just pushes her lusty thoughts away until one night when they train alone in the gym."
Jack's voice takes on a narrator's tone and I physically have to put my hand over his mouth to get him to stop with his ridiculous story. I'll admit to it being amusing, the thoughts are also disturbing. "As appealing as that sounds, Michaelson, I'm not a trainer and you're way too young for me."
"I'm fifteen."
I nod, "I figured."
"How old are you?" Jack takes another drink of his water, wiggling his eyebrows at me. He's a charming kid; I feel bad about everything that happens at home for him.
"I'm twenty."
"Five years really isn't that much, Tatum. I'll be legal in three."
I shove Jack a bit, rolling my eyes at his rationalization. Five years is way too much for me, especially if they're younger. He's just a kid.
"I'm good, thanks though."
We both sit on the bench, a calm silence surrounding us. After a while, he nudges me with his elbow. "Seriously though. Why did you and Holden split?"
I shake my head, amazed that I'm about to admit personal details to a fifteen year old. Thoughts of Holden bring me pain, but the underlying happiness is still there. Despite everything, I was undoubtedly the happiest when I was with Holden.
"He was hiding something from me. I found out about it and gave him a chance to tell me the truth and then he lied. I found out even more about what he was hiding and it was all too much. He's the same as he was when he first got involved with everything; he's just better at concealing it now."
It's hard to give details without explicitly saying just what Holden did. I can't bring myself to tell a kid about the new kind of bets being passed during boxing matches. Not when he seems to worship both the sport and Holden.
"How do you know he hasn't changed?"
"Because people don't just change." My voice is quieter than I'd like it to be, but I follow through with the sentence anyway. The image of Holden crumpled in front of me enters my mind and I struggle to push it away.
"You're right; they don't. But people can change. If they meet someone who makes them want to be a better person, they'll change. It's just a hard thing to do. You're not going to get immediate results."
I never would've expected such a wise response from a young boy, but if I take his situation into hand, it makes sense. He had to grow up far before anybody else his age.
"I don't know if people can change, Jack."
Jack stands up, coming to kneel in front of me. He makes sure we're making eye contact before going on with an explanation. I watch as one of his fingers points to the bruise I noticed earlier, a bitter expression on his face.
"I know they can. My dad did this, but he's trying to change. He's trying to be better for me. It's working, too. He hits me a lot less than he used to. It's not an immediate fix, but he's changing for me, Tatum. People can change."
My eyes fill with tears as I run this conversation through my mind. I know Jack's right, but I don't want to believe it. I feel like what's between me and Holden is an easy fix. All he has to do is back out of the fight and it's done.
My chest tightens; I know I'm lying to myself. Nothing is ever an easy fix — not when it matters.
"Maybe you're right, Jack."
I feel the first tear flow down my cheek and in less than thirty-seconds, I've got my bag around my back and I'm sprinting. I need to get home. I need to focus. I need to think.